


Star-Crossed

by Xela



Series: Little Black Dress [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Authority Figures, M/M, Master/Slave, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xela/pseuds/Xela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirk finds himself the owner of a very special new prize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Star-Crossed

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah. I am a no good wery dirtybadwrong kind of person. And Chekov is a bicycle I would ride into the ground. Mixing the two leads to this. First in the LBD verse, which is going to be Chekov/everyone. Not joking. This is my gratuitous smut verse, don't expect anything really in depth here. It's all about getting Chekov spectacularly laid. Oh, and he's a slave boy too!

Kirk strode through the market of Alterra 4. People got the fuck out of his way, recognizing the uniform he wore and the Enterprise's sigil sewn on his shoulder. The most feared warship in the Empire, whose fearsome reputation was matched only by that of her Captain. Who was not in a very pleasant mood at the moment.

“I has what you seek.” That someone would talk to him without being invited made Kirk pause more than anything else. The alien's smooth skin was a light lavender. Its eyes were a dusky purple-blue and it moved with a fluidity that reminded Kirk of the Emperor's dancers, trained from birth to do one thing only. “Come, come, Captain. Is here.”

Kirk followed it into the dark interior, ducking the low overhang. If the alien wasted his time he'd kill it.

The slaves were surprisingly healthy. Not just well-fed; the stench of misery and desperation was absent, as was any evidence of the drugs often employed to keep the merchandise compliant and blissed-out. No involuntary flinches or cowering... Kirk even caught the flicker of a glance from a few of the less polished slaves.

“You're a Trainer,” he noted, pausing to enjoy the sight of two flexible Nih'i slaves wrapped around each other, their skin changing color as they reached for their mutual pleasure. The alien tsked at him, a matronly sound of impatience. Kirk turned his coldest, most deadly glare on the slaver, but was roundly ignored.

“Humans, needs label everything. I are Keer. I has—”

“What I seek, I remember. And I haven't seen it yet.” The creature's attempt to smile was vaguely unsettling. It swept aside a curtain to reveal a sensuously decorated room reminiscent of ancient bordellos of Earth. And at its center knelt a nude human boy, lithe and pale.

He looked delicate, but Kirk could see strength within him. The woman said something in a lilting tongue and the boy turned towards the door. He met Kirk's gaze, intelligent and curious. Forward and bold. Kirk's control almost slipped when he realized the slave was _assessing_ him. Judging. This wasn't a market slave, taken and broken. No, this boy was whole.

So Kirk looked back, letting some of his amusement seep through. How could the boy possibly find _him_ wanting?

“Dah.” It was barely a whisper, not addressed to Kirk.

“Good,” the slaver said smartly, clapping its hands. It picked up a braided black collar, more slender and intricate than the standard industrial ones. Kirk found himself thinking it suited the boy. “He is yours. Go, consummate. Enjoy.”

Kirk blinked down at the collar in his hand. “You come cheap.” The boy didn't answer. When Kirk looked back at him the bold person was gone replaced by a picture-perfect slave.

Kirk studied his newest acquisition. His head was lowered in deference. His posture was nearly perfect, the arch of his spine creating a pleasing line for the eye to follow. His legs were slightly spread, palms resting on his thighs facing upward. Kirk let the silence of the room stretch on, but the boy never moved.

Kirk circled the boy, studying him, assessing. 

“How old are you?” he asked, more to hear the slave speak than for the answer.

“Sewenteen.” The boy had a familiar accent, something Kirk couldn't quite place. Kirk adjusted the boy's stance, forced his posture straighter, pushed his thighs farther apart. The boy accepted every correction without a single tell.

Kirk sprawled out in the plush chair in the corner, legs spread lewdly.

“And how are you at giving head, Seventeen?” Kirk only caught the brief flick of the boy's eyes up to him because he was looking for it.

“Wery good. Sir.”

“You can call me Captain,” Kirk said with a lazy grin, absently rubbing himself through his pants. 

“As you wish, Keptin.” That phrase finally clued Kirk in on the fact that he'd just acquired an Earth-born, Earth-trained slave. A rare commodity that usually required the favor of the Imperial crown to own.

“Come here,” Kirk commanded. The boy rose gracefully to his feet, no sign of muscle strain, and stepped between Kirk's legs, head bowed. Kirk snapped his fingers and the boy fell to his knees, spine straight and head curved invitingly.

An errant curl fell across the boy's forehead and Kirk swept it away. The slave leaned into the touch, his lips twitching up minutely in approval. Kirk felt a sense of satisfaction and ran his thumb over the slave's lips. They parted easily and the tip of a wet tongue flicking against the pad of Kirk's thumb.

“Продолжить,” Kirk commanded, and enjoyed the slight start he felt go through the boy when he was ordered to continue in Russian. Despite his shock, the boy obediently leaned forward and rubbed his cheek against Kirk's erection, eyes fluttering closed and inhaling deeply.

Kirk watched him, every movement and twitch, giving no instruction or objection.

The boy took his time, which both surprised and pleased Kirk. By the time he peeled Kirk's uniform pants off, Kirk was ready to order him to get on with it. He was glad he waited with the first flick of the boy's tongue over the head of his penis.

Kirk would have been amused with how hard the slave was trying to impress him—he had no doubt the kid was pulling out every trick he'd picked up and then some—except it was taking all his self control to just _let_ his new slave show off and not fuck his face.

The boy allowed his teeth to scrape gently over the top of Kirk's erection, alternating hard suction and gentle movements with the threat of teeth. This was not the work of someone being forced or who hated what he was doing. This...this was art. The way he found each spot that made Kirk gasp, then hit them over and over again. Kirk would call it torture if it didn't feel so good.

THe slave discovered that pressing his thumb hard on the underside of Kirk's cock and drawing a line down to the base made Kirk's hips jerk up every time. A second time make Kirk graon; a third had him writhing, whimpers caught in the back of his throat. Kirk ground his teeth and struggled to keep his control; he wasn't used to being this easy, he liked to make his bed mates work for his pleasure—and theirs—but this slave was rapidly pushing him towards the edge.

The only warning Kirk got was a brief, mischievous glance before the entirety of his cock was encased in warm, pulsing heat. The boy deep throated him and held where he was. Kirk was still fighting for control when the slave swallowed, throat constricting impossibly tight. Kirk arched up and came with a shout, pleasure coursing through him. The boy swallowed, the gentle suction of his mouth extending Kirk's orgasm. He stopped sucking just as the feeling bordered on too painful, pulling off and sinking back onto his heels. He tucked Kirk back into his pants while Kirk slumped in the chair, trying to slow his breathing to a manageable level.

Kirk idly tried to place this blow job amongst the many he'd had in his life, and found it coming out on top. His five-year mission was about to get far more enjoyable. Without warning, Kirk hooked his hands under the slave's arms and hauled the boy into his lap.

He kissed the slave, _his_ slave, nipped at his lip and enjoyed his taste. The boy opened beneath him, willing and receptive, moaning in appreciation. His skin was hot and sweat-slick, his cock thick with arousal. Kirk broke the kiss, gripping curly blond hair and pulling his slave's head back so the long arch of his neck was exposed. His slave bent back with the flexibility of youth, and Kirk took a moment to savor the wiry muscles and jut of the boy's erection.

“And are you mine, boy?” Kirk asked, voice low and hoarse. “Do you submit to me?”

“Yes,” he gasped, the curve of his Adam's apple moving under the taut skin of his throat. “Yes Keptin, yours.”

“Then I give you a name,” Kirk said. That broke his slave's rigid control, the boy involuntarily gasping, eyes flying up to meet Kirk's. Kirk grinned and thought up all the ways he'd make his slave break in the future. “Any one you want.” For a moment he looked all of his seventeen years, eyes wide and unguarded. Still shrewd, but Kirk had certainly startled him.

“Chekov. Pavel Andreievitch.” No contemplation or hesitation. Kirk traced circles around one of his slave's nipples.

“Chekov,” Kirk repeated, “Pavel Andreievitch. You are so named.”

Pavel slid fluidly off of Kirk's lap and bowed low, pressed his forehead to Kirk's boot in thanks and supplication. Kirk let himself admire the curve of Pavel's ass, the arch of his back. This shore leave had certainly been productive.

“Follow,” Kirk ordered, and swept out of the tent without another thought. Time to introduce the boy to his new home.


End file.
